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It was only expected that the first person Harry would encounter after being dropped into the 1940s would be an unfriendly Tom Marvolo Riddle.
After ‘deciding’ that Harry was not, in fact, a random muggle that had mistakenly wandered onto the Hogwarts grounds, Riddle had come to the insightful conclusion that yes, Harry needed to be taken to the headmaster right away.
A shiny prefect’s badge glinted on Riddle's chest as they passed through the candle lit hallways. Harry dearly wanted to pry it off and stick Riddle in the neck with the pointy bit.
It was not until they reached the gargoyle that guarded the spiral staircase that Riddle turned to look at him.
“Do you have a name?”
Thus far, Harry had kept his mouth firmly shut whenever possible, speaking only to defend himself. This had been a difficult feat when he was trapped in the throes of panic, wanting nothing more than to slip free of Riddle’s grasp and run for the forest.
However, this was a simple, reasonable question that ought to have a simple, reasonable answer. What was his name?
Don’t expose yourself, Harry thought. Don’t expose yourself. Pick a name that will not expose you.
There had only ever been two aliases in Harry’s life. One of them had been Roonil Wazlib, and the other had been—
“Dudley.”
Riddle stared at Harry like he had been scraped from the bottom of a shoe, and Harry felt his face turn bright red.
“Dudley,” repeated Riddle. "That is your name. Your real name. Dudley."
“Er—yes. Vernon Dudley.”
“Vernon Dudley,” repeated Riddle, sounding even more incredulous than before.
“Yes,” Harry said hotly, his heart pounding, “that’s my name. And if you don’t like it, you can shove it up your—”
The door next to them slid open, revealing a pale, somewhat balding wizard with a large, voluminous beard.
“Ah, hello, headmaster,” Riddle greeted in a strained tone.
Armando Dippet’s genial gaze swept over them both. “Mr Riddle, and…” He trailed off, squinting, as though narrowing his field of vision might help him identify the new, second boy dressed in dirty muggle clothing.
“Cousin,” Harry interrupted quickly. “He’s my cousin, and my name is Vernon Dudley.” Riddle shot him a horrified look, which prompted Harry to tack on a hurried, “Sir,” to the end of his statement.
Riddle fumed. “He is not my—”
“I need somewhere to stay for a while, because of, uh, the war.” Harry tried to look earnest and not like a complete and utter liar.
“Grindelwald’s reach has indeed become concerning,” Dippet agreed.
“Er, right,” Harry said. “I meant that war. The Grindelwald one.”
Riddle was now staring at him like he was an idiot. “Excuse me, sir, but this—this filthy miscreant is not related to me whatsoever!”
“This was a very unexpected family reunion,” Harry said hastily. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”
“Sir,” Riddle interjected between gritted teeth, “I do not have any fa—”
“You are more than welcome to reside here,” Dippet said. “You’ll be joining Mr Riddle’s fifth-year cohort, I assume?”
Harry nearly corrected the old man to seventh year, the year he was meant to be taking, but then thought better of it. “Actually, I’m a sixth year.” A whole year older than Riddle, full of classes that Harry already knew well enough to pass without effort.
Riddle’s furious glare could have spontaneously regenerated a phoenix on the spot.
Dippet set a brief hand upon Harry’s shoulder. “I shall leave you to sort the details with Professor Slughorn.”
“Thank you, sir.” Not a stickler for the details, then. Dippet hadn’t even asked him what house he wanted.
As Dippet walked off, Riddle seized Harry by the collar and shoved him into the wall. “I am not calling you my cousin. As far as we’re concerned, whatever your real name is, you are no one. A nobody. Do you understand, Dudley?”
The attempt at intimidation was somewhat ruined by the fact that Harry was a few inches taller than Riddle, and also that Harry could simply not take being called ‘Dudley’ seriously. Not to mention a stray curl had flopped over Riddle’s forehead, bouncing angrily in time with his irate words. Seeing Riddle this flustered and murderous was… unusually charming.
“Yep,” Harry said, popping the P. “Crystal clear. I'm nobody.”
“That's—that's right.” Riddle scowled. “Yes. You are a pathetic nobody.” He gave Harry one final violent shove, as though to emphasize the seriousness of their lacking relation, then began backing away, as though the concept of letting Harry out of his sight had not yet occurred to him.
When Riddle at last turned around and stalked off, Harry heard him muttering darkly under his breath, “Vernon Dudley. What sort of bloody name is that? Vernon Dudley,” over and over.
It was not the best choice for a fake name. Harry did not like either of the people it was based off of, and he was never going to respond to it properly.
But as Harry watched a distracted Tom Riddle turn a corner too soon and clip his shoulder painfully on the hard stone, he thought that in this one singular instance, it was not so bad.
END.
